


A Little Thing Called Empathy

by Jazline



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: In the beginning, neither Napoleon Solo nor Illya Kuryakin were thrilled about being paired up with each other...
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	A Little Thing Called Empathy

**A Little Thing Called Empathy**

**by [Jazline](mailto:jazline@hotmail.com)**

Early September, 1960  
  
The “partnership” was in its infancy. UNCLE’s proverbial hotshot, its up-and-coming head-honcho agent had recently been saddled with a veritable rookie. And Napoleon Solo was not at all happy about it! He had spent most of his time as an agent in Section Two working solo, and liked it that way.  
  
But being the professional he claimed to be, Napoleon accepted the inevitable with his usual grace and charm... until he actually met his newly appointed consecrate.

  
  
Illya Kuryakin was not exactly thrilled with Alexander Waverly’s choice of partner for him, either. He had heard about Solo’s antics, his bravado, his womanizing, his often blatant disregard for procedure and authority. A team of one, Illya assumed. Solo had been partnered with several before him, but from what he had heard, Napoleon still preferred working alone.  
  
Trying to disregard the negatives Kuryakin conjured up in his head, he decided to look at the positives. After all, Solo was considered one of the organization’s leading agents, with the prospect of becoming Section Two’s CEA much faster than others before him. There was also talk, actually rumors, that Napoleon Solo would eventually be groomed for Alexander Waverly’s position as head of Section One. To add to his list of credits, his performance in Survival School had become the benchmark for those who followed.  
  
Illya smiled to himself. Aah... being the benchmark, top dog. The Russian, who only knew of the Solo legend while training, had made it his business to out-do the top dog. And he was successful in several areas.  
  
Alexander Waverly had been tracking Illya Kuryakin’s progress from the moment he entered Survival School. It was his initiative which brought the Russian into the Command, seeking him out while he was a student in Paris. Waverly immediately saw that this young, brilliant man had potential within his organization.  
  
Working against a myriad of odds, Kuryakin wormed his way up the food chain during his extensive training. His trainers originally doubted that someone of his size and stature could succeed, but once they discovered the strength and power packed into his slim frame, they proceeded in turning out a true dynamo.  
  
Illya Kuryakin worked in Europe for a short while before receiving his orders to come to New York. He liked England and assumed he would be working out of the London office for most of his tenure with the Command.  
  
But Alexander Waverly felt having a Russian in his fold would be an asset.  
  
Napoleon Solo felt otherwise. Not that it mattered that his future partner was a Russian... after all, the scope of the Command was International. What concerned him was Kuryakin’s personality... or lack of it, as the rumors suggested.  
  
“How many other people has he teamed with?” Solo asked his boss after learning of the intended partnership.  
  
“Not too many, Mr. Solo,” Waverly answered, sighing. He knew where this conversation was heading. “He is relatively new to UNCLE. The few missions he had been sent on were accomplished with acute precision, expedience, and complete success.”  
  
“I’ve heard he has difficulty working with others. From what I gather, he’s not exactly a team player.”  
  
“On the contrary,” the UNCLE Chief responded curtly, “... those who have worked with him have nothing but the highest of praise for his performance. He happens to be very good at what he does.”  
  
“How long has he been partnered with any one person?” Napoleon asked, already knowing the answer.  
  
“Mr. Solo, I assume you’ve done your homework and found out all the information you can about Illya Kuryakin, so there’s little left for me to say. I see your point... he has no experience being partnered with one agent for any length of time... and yes, he does have an ‘edginess’ about him. He happens to be one of the finest men Survival School churned out and his ‘track record’ is exemplary, unlike some of our agents...”  
  
Napoleon Solo squared his shoulders at that last comment.  
  
“Agent Kuryakin will be here at 8 am sharp tomorrow morning,” Waverly continued. “I will meet with him first before calling you in.”  
  
“But...”  
  
“No ‘buts’, Mr. Solo. This is my decision, and I assume you will do your best to make Mr. Kuryakin feel accepted as your partner.”  
  
Napoleon took a breath and nodded before being dismissed.  
  


  
  
Their paring was shaky at first, to say the least. Napoleon Solo resented having a partner, and Illya Kuryakin resented being teamed with such a self-possessed, arrogant man.  
  
They found themselves being two headstrong alpha males trying to acquiesce to Alexander Waverly’s orders.  
  
Kuryakin looked down his nose at Solo’s free-wheeling, almost reckless mannerisms while on a mission. There were times when Napoleon’s impulsiveness almost became the cause for failure, but in the end, the American’s actions were right on target and they seemed to meet with success.  
  
Solo was at first shocked by Kuryakin’s arrogance. Who the hell was this aloof, wet-behind-the-ears rookie who had the nerve to defy him... defy his good judgment. Did the Russian see himself as the ‘voice of reason’? But in the long run, Illya’s advice and input was always sound. Although it seemed to pull in Solo’s reins just a bit, Illya’s judgment was always well thought out, intelligent, and too damned sensible.  
  
It did not take long for the two agents to fall into a relatively comfortable pattern of working together. By their third mission together, they realized that it was their dissimilarities which made the difference.  
  
Perhaps Waverly was right in pairing them. Once they were willing to overlook their own egos, they were able to put aside their differences and work in perfect consort with each other.  
  
But at the end of the day or the end of a mission, their partnership ended. Each usually bid the other a good evening (or good day or good morning) and went their separate ways.  
  
Napoleon would have liked a little more camaraderie in the partnership. He had spent some of his down-time with past partners mulling over their missions, joking over what went wrong, knocking back more drinks than they should have. The bonds of trust were more often formed out of the Command than realized.  
  
Illya, on the other hand, considered his job at UNCLE merely that... a job. Something he did with complete dedication and passion when he was working, but something he wanted to get away from on his down-time. To him, a quiet evening reading or listening to music or engaging in whatever activity of choice spurred him on at the moment is what recharged his batteries. He had no need to monopolize more of his precious time with Napoleon Solo, or whoever was the partner-du-jour.  
  
It was always Napoleon who made the overtures of having a drink or dinner together, and it was always Illya who politely declined. The Russian did not even feel it necessary to offer an excuse. Solo realized his offers were futile and finally gave up.  
  
What hurt more than the refusals was his wounded pride. Napoleon had always considered himself an outgoing fellow. Women swarmed to him like bees to honey. Men admired him... well, perhaps not all men... there were those at Thrush who would have been just as happy to see him dead... but Napoleon felt he was a “man’s man.” And why was it that this one arrogant, self-centered, humorless little Russian would not enjoy his company?  
  


  
  
Mid October  
  
Their morning briefing was much earlier than usual. The sun had not yet even begun to grace the horizon when Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo made their way into Alexander Waverly’s office.  
  
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Waverly said without giving eye contact to either of his two agents.  
  
Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo knew the routine. They silently took their unofficially appointed seats around the Old Man’s round conference table awaiting their new assignment.  
  
For the past five weeks they had worked as a team. Each of their four missions had ended successfully, with one less Thrush satrapy or one less demonic Thrush leader or one less threat to the world in their wake.  
  
Waverly continued reading through the files laying open for a few more moments before addressing his agents.  
  
Solo shifted a little, still uncomfortable with the short bouts of silence he often faced in his boss’ inner sanctum. _Kinda like being sent to the Principal’s office,_ he had mused to himself, trying to fill in the minutes without appearing too uneasy. He assumed twiddling his thumbs was out.  
  
Illya, on the other hand, silently shut his eyes and took advantage of the time to meditate, or relax, or sleep... Napoleon wasn’t really sure which.  
  
“Our latest intelligence sources suggest that a shipment of illegal drugs is scheduled to fall into Thrush’s hands some time this morning.” the UNCLE Chief stated matter-of-factly.  
  
He clicked a button on his console and a large movie screen lowered from the ceiling. Another button clicked and a slide of New York Harbor appeared. Staten Island was on the lower left, New Jersey just above it, and the Brooklyn waterfront on the right. Waverly zoomed in on the Erie Basin, with its piers and warehouses hugging the Harbor.  
  
“I did not think Thrush was into trafficking illegal substances,” Kuryakin offered. “Are they planning to peddle marijuana?”  
  
“No, Mr. Kuryakin. Cocaine,” Waverly answered.  
  
“Why the switch to harder drugs?” Napoleon asked. “I thought Thrush would be in cahoots with the Colombians since they’ve cornered the market on marijuana. Aren’t they making a killing financially...” he chuckled slightly, “...for lack of a better term.”  
  
“The need of an outside supplier of marijuana has greatly diminished, Napoleon,” Kuryakin informed him. “Large crops are being grown right here in America.”  
  
“How resourceful,” Solo muttered, hating to be outdone by his partner.  
  
“Besides,” Illya added, “trafficking cocaine is far more logical than marijuana. It is easier to transport and brings in far higher revenues than cannabis.”  
  
Alexander Waverly raised his bushy eyebrows, amazed once again at Kuryakin’s vast stores of knowledge. Napoleon knew better than to try to voice an opinion when his partner’s was more accurate  
  
Kuryakin continued. “Logistically, cocaine trafficking is handled by Colombians who get their crop into this country via the Cuban mafia who have relocated to Florida. The Colombians grow and refine the cocaine, then give it to their Cuban comrades, who would in turn bring it into the US.”  
  
Solo cleared his throat. “So we are to assume that Thrush now wants it piece of the cocaine pie?”  
  
“That is correct, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly answered, nodding. “The freighter _Fidelité_ is scheduled to make its way up the Harbor at some point during the day. And on that freighter, gentlemen, is the cocaine Thrush has been waiting to get its hands on.” He glared at his two Section Two Agents. “We must avert this transaction at all costs.”  
  
  


  
  
Less than an hour after leaving Alexander Waverly’s office, Solo and Kuryakin were waiting among a throng of 30 hopeful longshoremen. The duo blended into the crowd, looking as similar in dress as the men next to them. This morning ritual for the group began at sunrise. They amassed before a locked gate to Pier 14, patiently waiting to see which among them would be chosen for a day’s work. Considering the season - late fall - the weather was cooperating very nicely. The thermometer rose to a crisp 35º by dawn.  
  
Illya Kuryakin puffed warm air into his hands, chilled by the morning air. His blue stocking cap was pulled down over his ears, covering most of his white-blond hair. A thick flannel lined jacket covered his black turtleneck sweater, helping insulate the slight body against the pre-dawn dampness. Workbooks and thick woolen socks kept out the chill beneath his feet.  
  
Napoleon Solo, standing several feet away, was performing the same rituals to keep himself warm. He had also forsaken his expensive Italian suit for this assignment, wearing the compulsory ‘dock worker’ regalia like his partner.  
  
The two agents made no contact with each other. They were merely two ordinary men looking to be hired.  
  
At 6 am sharp a short, plump man ambled into view from behind the locked gate. Kuryakin assumed it was the shift boss. As he neared, the stench of his cheap cigar wafted towards the throng. His stubbly beard and greasy hair took form in the seconds to follow. Clothing in dire need of a washing machine covered his chunky form.  
  
Shift Boss’ true appearance was not apparent until he reached the gate. Solo noticed the distinct bulge in the fabric around the man’s midsection, indicating he had a weapon tucked in the waistband of his trousers. His hands were gnarled. Solo assumed his hands had been broken more than once, and poorly set. A distinct scar marred his left cheek - perhaps a knife cut. He definitely looked like a man who could handle himself if trouble drifted his way.  
  
He held a walkie-talkie in his left hand. Just before turning his attention to the men standing on the other side of the gate, he grunted a few indecipherable words into the speaker and waited for the crackly response. He turned his head towards the end of the pier and nodded when three large, burly men came stepped into view. Then he opened the gate.  
  
The shift boss quickly and expertly surveyed the hushed gathering of men standing before him. His obvious years of experience helped him streamline the process. Of the approximate thirty men standing before him, only eighteen would be hired.  
  
It was obvious that many were regulars and eleven of them were readily selected. Once the first wave of workers passed through the gate, Shift Boss surveyed the group a second time, this time with a more discerning eye. He sized up the remaining men to decide who would stay and who would be turned away.  
  
His gaze fell on Napoleon Solo first. The agent stood tall, exuding an air of confidence. The strong, handsome features were evident beneath the many layers of warm clothing. A few others were scouted out next. Finally, Illya Kuryakin caught Shift Boss’ attention.  
  
Kuryakin barely caught a second glance. Shift Boss huffed under his breath and shook his head at the Russian’s small stature. But Kuryakin’s gaze remained steadfast, not broadcasting an air of defiance, but rather an aura of fortitude. The cigar rolled around in the boss’ mouth a moment, as though considering this diminutive man before moving on to the next.  
  
Within minutes his decision was made. Shift Boss retraced his steps and began pointing out his next seven workers. Solo was number three, Kuryakin was number seven.  
  
Illya Kuryakin heaved a silent sigh of relief as he walked through the gate. Had he not been selected, he would have to find alternative means to gain entry to the docks.  
  
Shift Boss met with the eighteen men he had just selected to review the day’s work order.  
  
“You runts will be unloading three ships today,” Shift Boss began. He took a long puff of his putrid cigar. “The first one is already in port, the second is due by noon, and the third about 3 pm. It’s gonna be a long day, so I hope you guys don’t plan on wimping out.”  
  
“For Chrissake, Bruno,” one of the currently employed called out. “Cut the crap! We all know you’ll break our arm if we do.”  
  
Bruno the shift boss chuckled and nodded his head. “Yeah. To know me is to love me, eh?”  
  
A few more chuckles from the group, then silence.  
  
“Well don’t just stand there, ladies!” Bruno hollered. “Get to work!”  
  


  
  
The _Milagros_ rocked gently alongside Pier 14; it’s cargo, pallets of Chilean fruit, waited to be unloaded.  
  
Bruno’s regular crew seemingly got the cushier jobs of driving forklifts, while the newer peons were relegated to more manual labor. Napoleon Solo’s position was on board the _Milagros_ , while Illya Kuryakin worked dockside.  
  
The Russian mumbled to himself as the damp, chilly winds permeated his several layers of clothing. Inwardly, he was also thankful for not being ordered to work onboard the ship. In his haste to get to Pier 14 on time, he had forgotten to take his Dramamine. The last thing he needed was a bout a seasickness.  
  
Pallets of Chilean fruit were lowered from the ship on to the dock. Kuryakin and his co-workers were responsible for breaking down the pallets and separating the boxes of fruit for their perspective buyers. It was a long and tedious task. Although he considered himself in top form, the Russian’s muscles began rebelling after a few hours of the strenuous work.  
  
Bruno watched from a distance, rolling the now-stubby cigar around in his mouth. A look of sheer amusement masked his face while he kept vigil over his workers. He continually barked orders to his men, warning them that if they did not speed up their work, they would not get paid. Kuryakin was thankful that belts and whips were unsuitable for this type of public display.  
  
By noon, the freighter was unloaded and soon disembarked from Pier 14. After only a twenty minute break, the new ship, _Sundance_ , pulled into port. According to the roster, the _Sundance_ carried Canadian lumber. Trucks began queuing up on Pier 14 to have its contents lowered onto their flatbeds. By 2:30, the _Sundance_ was history and so was Kuryakin’s stamina.  
  
Illya had not seen much of Napoleon throughout the day. They were assigned different places to work, neither of them wanted to break cover by seeking out the other. After all, they were two grunts looking for a day’s employment.  
  
The workers were given a break between once their jobs on the _Sundance_ were completed. Fortunately, “Antiono’s Catering” truck drove on to Pier 14 about that time. The men milled around the shiny silver vehicle as Antonio opened up its sides, revealing a myriad of snacks, sandwiches, and urns of piping hot coffee.  
  
The UNCLE agents joined the rest of the group and casually met up with each around around the coffee urn. Napoleon looked as dapper as even, Illya more ragged around the edges.  
  
“Cushy job, I presume?” the Russian muttered between sips of warm coffee. He casually looked around eyeing the rest of the crowd, seeing if anyone else had joined their ranks.  
  
“Not all that cushy,” Napoleon responded, checking out the others as well. He turned around to face the contents of the truck, offering a more private conversation with his partner. “Have you noticed the newcomers?”  
  
“Yes,” Illya replied, turning as well to select a ham and cheese sandwich. He paid Antonio then turned back to Napoleon. “I see three Thrush henchmen who have entered the premises approximately ten minutes ago. I believe our paths have crossed a few weeks back during a squirmish behind ‘Creative Touches’ gallery.”  
  
“Aah, yes. I remember,” Solo mused, taking a small bite of his cheese danish. “Thrush was harassing the owner of the gallery... something about wanting to use his basement as a storeroom.”  
  
“Uh huh! I now suppose it was in anticipation of the _Fidelité’s_ cargo.”  
  
“Correct. Who would suspect a small gallery being the drop-off point for a rather large shipment of cocaine.” Solo took another sip of his coffee. “Fortunately, we did thwart their plans.”  
  
“It merely a band-aid on a cancer, Napoleon,” Kuryakin sighed. “We both know that.”  
  
Bruno the Shift Boss shouldered his way into the throng. “Get a move on it, Ladies! The freighter is coming up the harbor and should be docking any minute!”  
  
The mass of workers, now weary from a hard day’s work, slowly turned to return to their jobs.  
  
“Get the lead out!” he bellowed. “It’s gonna be dark soon and I wanna wrap up today’s work before Christmas arrives!”  
  
Solo and Kuryakin parted ways, taking up the positions they held throughout the day. Illya had the advantage of keeping watch on Pier 14’s gate, ready to relay pertinent information concerning who entered and exited to UNCLE.  
  
Before taking up his position for the last job, he removed a cigarette-pack shaped box from his coat pocket, his communicator, and activated it, checking to make sure his connection went through to Headquarters and Solo. When the satisfactory response was returned, he replaced the still-activated communicator in the top pocket of his coat. To the untrained eye it looked like an ordinary pack of cigarettes.  
  
“So far,” he reported discreetly into the box, “three Thrushmen are on the pier. More vehicles are entering to pick up the shipments. Will keep you posted.”  
  
Once in port, Bruno’s ship-bound workers boarded _Fidelité’s_ deck. It appeared to be a regular freighter, supposedly transporting ceramic pottery from South America. Napoleon Solo and the men on deck prepared the cargo for removal.  
  
As the cargo was ready to be lowered on to the pier, Solo spotted two of the Thrushmen he had previously seen entering the gate, along with three others. They were inspecting the merchandise, making sure the pallets held what they assumed was their precious cocaine.  
  
Below, Illya watched as several more fairly well-known Thrush goons, along with two of the more upper-echelon variety, commandeered from the pier.  
  
“The birds are in place and ready to receive the goods,” Kuryakin quietly reported into his communicator. He detailed the number of Thrushmen on the pier, as well as number of trucks awaiting their cargo. So far, he counted a dozen Thrushies milling around on the pier as well as onboard _Fidelité_ , as well as four pickup trucks.  
  
The sunlight was beginning to dim as the afternoon wore on. Illya looked at his watch - 4:15. He knew by 5 pm dusk would impede their progress.  
  
The pallets were lowered on to the dock, then picked up by Bruno’s forklift operators. Bruno himself checked in the merchandise on his roster, then instructed the drivers to place them on the flatbeds of the pick up trucks. In record time, the cargo was loaded and the trucks queued up to leave the gates of Pier 14.  
  
Before the first truck could exit, sirens blared and scores of police cars surrounded the pier, effectively blocking the trucks’ egress. Swarms of policemen flooded the premises, forcing everyone to stop in their tracks or risk being shot. Most complied.  
  
From his position on the pier, Kuryakin watched the three upper-echelon Thrushmen slowly back away towards the dock. The encroaching darkness aided their escape. The Russian slipped away under the same cover of dusk and followed them to a Thrush speedboat waiting at the dock, their back-up plan.  
  
By the time Illya reached the dock, the trio was aboard boat and on their way down the harbor. He drew his weapon and fired off a few futile rounds. He then sighed and pulled his communicator from his pocket to report their escape.  
  
After speaking to Headquarters, the Russian attempted to check Napoleon’s status via his communicator. His repeated requests for connection to Solo failed, causing the hairs to raise on the nape of his neck.  
  
Illya quickly made his way back to the entryway of Pier 14. UNCLE agents and the NYPD were busy rounding up the remaining Thrush agents and confiscating their cargo. Bruno the Shift Boss was also suspect. His hands fanned the air in exasperation - he was, in his opinion, just doing his job. Moments later he was carted off with the rest of the Thrush flock.  
  
The remaining dock workers were interviewed, cleared and told they could leave.  
  
Solo was no where to be found.  
  
Illya Kuryakin took a deep breath and turned his attention towards the dock, realizing now that not only were the Thrush upper-echelon on the speed boat, his partner was on board as well.

Napoleon Solo was cold. Chilled to the bone to be exact. He stifled the urge to shiver as soon as his cognitive senses returned. With his eyes still closed, he tried to assess his situation.  
  
His entire body ached. Vague memories of five Thrushmen surrounding him and subduing him began forming. He remembered the fleeting satisfaction of overcoming two of them, leaving them as lumps on the ground before the other three converged upon him en masse, ultimately rendering him unconscious.

The agent knew he was in restraints, on his knees with his hands secured behind his back. The tops of his feet were making contact with a cold surface, concrete perhaps. He felt its roughness, indicating Thrush had removed his shoes and socks. His ankles were held in what felt like metal bands, and whoever restrained him had placed similar bands below his knees.  
  
He was not upright. The upper portion of his body rested on a hard surface, his cheek pressed into what felt like a plank of wood which rested atop a box. He discreetly tried raising his torso, but lacked the leverage from his position.  
  
The jacket and layers of clothing Napoleon Solo wore throughout the day were gone, leaving only his undershirt to provide a modicum of warmth. It did little to keep out the damp chill which drifted through his surroundings. Also gone were the ‘toys’ his clothing had housed.  
  
A dank, musty odor was now evident - a mixture of oil, solvents, and fuel... possibly diesel. His mental rolodex tried ascertaining its origins. Definitely something related to motors.  
  
The room was silent at first. Solo strained his ears to catch any sound which would divulge clues to his whereabouts. Seconds later he heard the soft lapping of water.  
  
The pieces began coming together. Feeling no motion beneath him, he assumed he was not onboard a boat, but perhaps on a pier with the water gently hitting the pylons below. The musty smell, the dampness and chill - yes, he was definitely near water.

Having no idea how long he had been unconscious, Napoleon could only assume he was still in the area around the New York Harbor.  
  
  


  
**UNCLE Headquarters**

The two remaining Upper-Echelon Thrush agents waited in separate cells in the bowels of UNCLE. Waverly wanted them interrogated by his own men. The remaining Thrush grunts, the lower level muscle employed solely as brute force, were left to the devices of the NYPD.  
  
Upon their arrival, Illya Kuryakin and several Section Two agents thoroughly divested them of their weapons and any other sources of self defense they held on their person. Their clothing, all the way down to their underwear, had been removed and replaced with standard-issue UNCLE sweat suits. No buttons, no zippers, no belts, no pockets. Their cells were utilitarian and much more humane than those offered by Thrush.  
  
Kuryakin and Joshua Young, the other Section Two agent he selected to interrogate the Thrushmen, observed their prisoners for a few moments via closed-circuit monitors.  
  
The Russian appeared cool, calm, and collected on the outside, but his guts were churning within him. His initial instinct was to enter the cells one at a time and try to extract the information he so desperately wanted by brute force. But, as Alexander Waverly continually reminded him, they were to use more civilized methods of getting what they wanted.  
  
Jorge Castillano, Thrush agent number one, seemed relaxed. He reclined on his mattress, hands behind his head for additional cushioning, and appeared to be taking a nap. Arnold Delany, the second Thrushie, sat on his bunk bed, leaning against the wall. He was quietly humming several Beatles tunes to pass the time.  
  
Their cells were not in close proximity, affording the Thrushmen the ability to hear only remnants of each other’s interrogations.

Kuryakin and Section Two agent Joshua Young interrogated Jorge Castillano first. They were relentless, spending the better part of two hours trying to pry the whereabouts of Napoleon Solo from him. Castillano refused to divulge what they needed to know.  
  
Arnold Delany was next. They purposely chose to interrogate him last; he seemed less at ease than Castillano.  
  
“You realize, of course, your career with Thrush is over,” Kuryakin said to Delany, his face so close he was literally breathing down the Thrushie’s neck. His voice was quiet with an undercurrent of venom. “Not to mention your life.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Delany denied.  
  
The Russian stood upright and crossed his arms. “One hundred and fifty kilos of cocaine? Does that ring a bell? Thrush invested a great deal of money upfront procuring the drugs. They planned to stake a claim as drug lords. Do you really think Thrush will overlook this fiasco?”  
  
Delany sneered. “Cocaine?”  
  
Joshua Young grabbed Arnold by the collar, rapidly tightening his grasp. Delany’s face reddened.  
  
“Have you any idea what your Thrush masters will do when they hear you’ve lost their precious shipment?” Kuryakin continued. He began slowly pacing the room, looking very much like a panther stalking its prey. “Do you honestly believe they will let you get away with this?”  
  
Young released his grip.  
  
“Fuck off!” Arnold spat, gasping to regain his breath. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”  
  
“Don’t we, now?” Joshua smirked. He nodded his head towards Kuryakin. “Tell me, Mr. Kuryakin, in your past experiences with Thrush, what would their means of punishment be?”  
  
Illya moved in close to Delany once more, meeting him eye-to-eye. “As we speak, your bank records are being doctored to reveal a rather large chunk of money being siphoned into it,” Kuryakin began. “You do the math, Mr. Delany. Once they’ve caught you... and they will catch you, plan on several long days of intense interrogation, followed by severe torture.” The Russian smirked. “And if you’re lucky, they will let you live.”  
  
Kuryakin stood and walked away, turning his back to the Thrush agent as if in thought. “Although you may wish they had simply put a bullet through your brain.” He turned slowly towards Delany. “You will probably be quite physically impaired, practically maimed, and left to fend for yourself. You will never again have a sense of security, of safety. Prepare to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder to see who will eventually finish you off. Thrush has a long memory, and little forgiveness.”  
  
Beads of sweat began to form on Arnold Delany’s brow.  
  


**Somewhere near the New York Harbor**

Napoleon opened his eyes slightly to look around. His current 'prison' was dimly lit and cavernous. Functional shelving surrounded the walls. Hooks holding what appeared to be auto repair parts filled in the gaps between the shelves. Tires of various sizes stood along the lower portion of the walls.

Realizing he was alone, Solo opened his eyes completely and lifted his head. He winced at the pain the slight motion created. Refusing to relent, he propped himself upright to get a proper look at his environs.

He appeared to be in a mechanic’s shop which also served as a warehouse. Marine supplies as well as auto supplies were stored on the other side of the building.

Crates were piled high under a small window near the roof with labels stenciled on their sides indicating they contained shipbuilding materials. Pneumatic air hoses suspended from the ceiling near the crates.

To the right of the crates was a large sliding door. Solo assumed that was the harbor side, naturally allowing boats easy access to the facility for repair. The agent strained to turn his head to see what was behind him. A set of three garage doors graced that wall, obviously for land-bound vehicles to enter.

Now completely aware of his situation and surroundings, Napoleon struggled to free himself of his restraints. The rope which tied his hands offered no ‘give’ as he tried to loosen them. Obviously whoever bound him mastered the art of nautical knots. He felt for his wristwatch - missing also. The small blade housed under its casing would have been a great help.

Next he reached down behind his knees, feeling for the clamps holding him down. Yes, they were indeed metal, and secured to the floor with a heavy-duty lock. Arching backwards and reaching for his ankles, he discovered that those bindings were the same.

Solo knew his only chance of escaping was to free his hands. He tried pulling, squeezing, twisting his hands through the knots. They did not budge one iota.

A sound from behind caused him to stop. A slight creek met his ears, followed by the sound of a key freeing a lock’s hold. Seconds later, the sound of a chain being dragged free of its latch echoed through the building. The garage door behind him then raised and bright overhead lights were turned on. With the lights came the hum of an exhaust fan.

“Wait outside for me,” a gruff voice grumbled before lowering the garage door once more.

Booted footsteps made their way closer to Napoleon, their echoes bouncing off the walls of the warehouse.

Solo knew only one man entered the building, but was clueless as to how many others remained outside. His heartbeat quickened as the man neared; he was in no position to defend himself.

“Where is it, Mr. Solo?” the voice boomed as he approached.

Napoleon looked over his shoulder, seemingly relaxed. “Where is what, may I ask?”

The big man, all six and a half feet of him, now towered over the UNCLE agent. He drew his right arm across his body and backhanded Solo across the face.

Napoleon’s head flew back, then the salty taste of his own blood laced across his tongue. He composed himself before sitting back on his heels.

“I believe there must be some sort of misunderstanding,” Napoleon said, attempting to put off the inevitable.

“No understanding at all, Mr. Solo. Now, where is it?”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I am definitely not that person.”

The Thrush muscle looked confused for a moment, then smirked.

“Oh yeah... that’s right... they told me you were smooth,” he chuckled. “You don’t remember me? Chaley Austin?”

Solo looked skyward, as if in thought. “Hmmm... Chaley Austin, Chaley Austin... no, the name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Yeah, right, like we’ve never met. I know your memory works better than that! Six months ago...?” he paused, raising his eyebrows, only to receive no sign of recognition.

“... Trenton, New Jersey?.....” Austin continued.

Solo shrugged.

“... that little commotion behind the bar on Lalor Street?....?

Napoleon’s face finally lit up. “Aah yes, I remember now. Chaley Austin, of course.”

Then Austin’s face became serious. “The cocaine... now where is it?”

“Are you referring to the shipment of pottery that came off the ship this evening?” Solo asked, looking as incredulous as possible under the circumstances. “There was cocaine in it? I merely thought that Thrush was becoming philanthropic, perhaps subsidizing poor South American artisans.”

“Cut the crap, Solo. My instructions were to find out where the shipment was taken, and if all else fails, kill you however I want.”

Solo sighed, knowing the jig was up. He would have to stall for time.

“All I know is I was hired to unload crates from the _Fidelité_. Anything after that is out of my hands.”

“Where was it taken?”

“I’m not sure. I assume the NYPD has it tucked away somewhere safe. You see, your goons knocked me out before I had a chance to see the end of the movie.”

“You are making a serious mistake, Mr. Solo. I’m giving you one last chance to give me the information I want.”

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t help you out.” Inwardly, he was relieved that Austin was focused on his primary goal - the cocaine, and could not grasp the importance of having a prize like himself, one of UNCLE’s finest, in his presence.

A venomous smile crossed Chaley Austin’s lips as he removed the wooden cover to the box Napoleon’s cheek had previously rested upon. Dark, murky, water rippled slightly from its disturbance. The acrid smell of rubber and grease wafted to the UNCLE agent’s nostrils.

Solo recognized what stood before him as the bath auto repair shops use to determine whether or not air is leaking from tires. The stench from the water only confirmed it.

“One last chance, Mr. Solo,” Austin threatened, inwardly hoping that his prisoner would maintain his stubbornness. “Oh, and by the way, Mr. Solo, did I mention my bosses said that if you fail to cooperate, I can kill you any way I choose?”

Napoleon eyed the water, then eyed Chaley Austin, and curled his lip in anticipation.

The UNCLE agent’s lack of response was all the incentive Austin needed.

Arnold Delany’s head rested on his arms, outwardly relieved for the few moments’ reprieve. Illya Kuryakin muttered quietly to himself as he stalked away.

“What the hell is the problem?” Kuryakin snarled at the young Section Three man who waited for him outside the interrogation cell door. “This had better be important!”

“Yes Mr. Kuryakin, it is. Mr. Waverly asked me to find you. He wants you to contact him immediately.”

Illya was confused as to why the Old Man had not merely used the intercom system. Taking a handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped Delany’s blood off his knuckles before taking the elevator to Mr. Waverly’s office.

“Uh, sir...?” the section Three agent called as Kuryakin walked away.

“What is it?” the Russian barked back at him.

The young man pointed to his own chin, then Kuryakin’s. “You missed a spot.”

It took only moments for Illya Kuryakin to be at Alexander Waverly’s door. Lisa Rogers announced to her boss that he had arrived.

“Have you had any luck with our two Thrush guests?” Waverly asked.

“Not yet, sir,” Kuryakin answered, knowing very well that his boss was well informed on the status of the interrogations. “I feel Delany is more apt to break than Castillano. He appears to be weakening.”

“We need him to divulge Mr. Solo’s whereabouts. Have you any idea of the time?”

Illya furrowed his brow and looked at his watch. 11:30 pm. It had been nearly six hours since Solo’s abduction. He had lost all track of time.

“As you can well see, time is of the essence. Lord only knows where they’ve taken Mr. Solo and the damage they could have done in the past few hours. He has recently acquired sensitive information that Thrush would love to get their hands on. Fortunately, they do know that. But knowing how valuable a prize like Mr. Solo would be for them, I have no doubt that they will do anything within their means to milk as much from him as they can.”

The Russian nodded curtly. “Of course I understand. I’ll step up the interrogation.”

“Do that, Mr. Kuryakin. But please remember that we are not as barbaric as they are.”

Illya grinned. “Naturally.”

******

Napoleon Solo gasped for air as Chaley Austin yanked his head up from the tire tank. The agent lost count as to how many times the Thrush muscle held him underwater. The last few times, Solo felt his lungs could not have held out a fraction of a second longer.

“Ready to talk?” Austin roared.

Raspy coughs and sharp gulps of air were the only response Chaley Austin got. Napoleon was unable to speak. His chest heaved and his lungs ached. He had inhaled quantities of the vile fluid and his lungs were rebelling violently. In the brief seconds he was not coughing, the urge to vomit prevailed from small quantities of the water which missed the windpipe and found its way down his throat.

Taking the lack of response as a reply in the negative, Austin took a fistful of Solo’s hair and lowered his head into the water again.

Instinctively, Napoleon bucked against his hold, his body thrashing about, unable to escape Austin’s grasp. The agent could not even estimate the amount of time he was held underwater, but the fight within him lessened as his need for oxygen became dire. Austin watched as Solo’s lungs expelled the last of their air and felt the agent’s body begin to spasm in his grip. Only then did he raise Napoleon’s head out of the water.

Solo’s eyes opened wide as his head was once again pulled out of the murky water. The initial gasp for air was interrupted by the need to expel the putrid fluid from his lungs, causing him again to cough uncontrollably.

Austin miraculously gave him a few minutes to compose himself, having the presence of mind to realize that he could not get the information he needed from someone unable to catch their breath.

The coughing subsided only slightly before Napoleon forced himself to lean to the side of the watery box to retch. After several attempts to relieve his stomach of the contaminated liquid, he managed to pull himself upright, once again trying to gasp precious oxygen into his lungs.

Napoleon’s body shivered. From the repeated dunkings, water had soaked his clothing as it ran down his head and face. It now pooled around his knees, adding to his discomfort.

The Thrushie’s patience finally ran out. Rough hands grabbed Solo’s hair and pulled his head forward. The UNCLE agent glared at his with as much fortitude as he could muster under the circumstances.

Austin smirked. Solo’s eyes were bloodshot from the contaminants in the water and broken blood vessels from his near-drownings.

“You don’t look too good,” Austin chuckled. “Tell me what I want to know and we’ll part ways like this never happened.”

Solo wondered how stupid Austin really was. Surely Austin knew that the NYPD had confiscated the shipment, including the cocaine. Was Thrush under the assumption that UNCLE planned to rid of the drugs themselves?

“What makes you think I’d know where the drugs are, anyway?” Napoleon finally croaked, surprised at his lack of voice. The coughing spasms began again.

“Why else would UNCLE send **_you_** there?”

”It’s a dirty job, but someone had to do it,” Solo mused between gasps. He hoped to buy a little time.

“And since it was your job, you know where UNCLE took it!”

“UNCLE never touched that crap. I assume the police have it.”

“Yeah. I don’t believe a word you say,” Austin growled as he took a firm hold on Solo’s head and submerged him once more.

An eternity passed for Napoleon Solo. Chaley Austin subjected him to several more dunkings with only a few brief respites in-between. The UNCLE agent rested his head on the rim of the tire bath, his violent coughing interrupted several times by vomiting. He was weak, his vision blurry, his head about to explode. Chaley Austin pulled on Napoleon’s hair, forcing him to sit upright.

“You are one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?” Austin mumbled.

The Thrush goon took a deep breath and shook his head slowly, releasing his grip on Napoleon. The agent immediately sat back on his calves in fatigue. The coughing continued, his lungs raw.

Austin walked away. Napoleon watched him through slitted eyelids, and felt himself cringe when the Thrushie returned with a crowbar.

Chaley Austin, all six and a half feet of him, stood next to Napoleon Solo and raised the crowbar high above his head, a wicked grin crossing his face.

“Can’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” Austin growled as the crowbar drew back slightly, ready to swing down.

Napoleon shut his eyes and grimaced, instinctively tucking his head as far from Austin as possible, raising the shoulder closest to the Thrushman to received the brunt of the blow.

But the blow never came.

A muffled “pop” cut through the silence before Austin had the chance to split Solo’s head in two with the crowbar.

Napoleon looked up to see Chaley Austin momentarily frozen in time, his eyes wide open, his mouth gaping. The crowbar, still arched back above his head, fell to the ground. As if in slow motion, the giant man’s knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.

As the big man fell, an image in black standing atop the crates by the high window became visible. This man stood poised with his gun drawn. For a few seconds, an eerie sense of calm filled the room. Illya Kuryakin was a welcome vision, a veritable sight for sore eyes.

Solo felt his heart pounding in his chest. A blur of black with a halo of blond hair swung down from an pneumatic air hose tethered near the crates in true Tarzanian fashion and landed a few feet away. An immediate sense of security washed over him.

It apparently took seconds, Napoleon assumed, for his partner to be at his side. The Russian held his face with both hands and looked directly into his eyes, silently making split-second assessments of his condition.

Illya’s usual façade of reserve momentarily slipped, showing deep concern for his partner. Solo’s face was swollen and red. His eyes had broken blood vessels from near suffocation. The split lip had never fully clotted and blood tricked down his chin. The Russian pulled back his eyelids to check for responsiveness to light.

“Were you drugged?”

Solo was shaking uncontrollably. His chest heaved, his stomach churned. The agent managed to respond in the negative.

Illya slipped behind Napoleon to untie his hands. As he struggled with the knots, one of the garage doors behind them was blasted open. Three more UNCLE enforcement agents ran into the building, guns drawn.

“All clear!” Kuryakin yelled as he finally freed Solo’s wrists. “Status?”

“The six Thrush agents outside have been subdued,” Don Bainbridge reported, “and a cleanup crew is on the way.”

“Should I call for medical assistance?” Martin Kirk asked as he reached Kuryakin and Solo.

Napoleon immediately brought his arms forward and grasped his chest. Illya moved back in front of him while the other agents began freeing his knees and ankles.

“Can you make it back to headquarters without Medical?” Illya asked his partner.

Solo only nodded.

“Hold on, Napoleon,” he said softly. “We will have you out of here shortly.”

Spasms of coughs wracked Solo’s body. He bent at the waist, grasping his chest with one arm and holding on to the water tank for stability with the other, bringing up the vile liquid still trapped in his lungs. The agent gagged and repelled more of the fluid from his stomach. He eventually realized that distant Russian partner was holding him throughout.

“Done!” Albert Randolph, another of the UNCLE enforcement agents, announced.

Bainbridge and Randolph brought Napoleon to his feet. Illya observed him for the few seconds and noticed that his partner stood on unsteady legs. His feet and knees were bloody from abrasions caused by scraping the concrete repeatedly. Napoleon’s face immediate paled. He still coughed and shook uncontrollably.

Kuryakin looked around for a container - something, anything - that could hold a sample of the contents of the water in the tire bath. He found a jar of nails on a workbench and dumped its contents enroute to the trough before scooping up a specimen of the fluid.

The rescue team had arrived on the scene in a Volkswagen Bus, a van they often used on missions that required multiple operatives. Agent Howard Starr had stayed behind the wheel as their lookout and was prepared for instant departure. Two more enforcement agents stood guard outside the building. Their job was to secure the site after Kuryakin and his team exited until the cleanup crew arrived.

Martin Kirk jumped into the front of the van alongside Starr and pulled out a semi-automatic with a silencer from beneath the seat. He was, as Solo had often put it, ‘Riding Shotgun!”

Randolph opened the sliding door and took position into the rear third row of the van with his weapon, eyes surveying the darkness for any sign of Thrush.

Bainbridge moved into the far end of the second row and helped Napoleon get in after him. Kuryakin followed last and slid the door shut as Howard Starr stepped on the accelerator.

“Aim the heat back here!” Kuryakin snapped to the agents up front. “Put it on ‘high’! Call headquarters and request medical assistance the minute we arrive!”

Martin and Howard obeyed, not too thrilled with Kuryakin’s abrasiveness.

Wordlessly, Illya tugged at Napoleon’s drippy T-shirt to pull it off. His partner, still coughing, pushed his hand away.

“You are freezing, Napoleon,” Illya said matter-of-factly.

Solo nodded. He was too weak to argue and finally relented, allowing his partner to help remove his shirt.

Kuryakin pinched the shirt between his thumb and forefinger and curled up his nose at its stench before dropping it to the floor. Quickly, he wriggled out of his bomber jacket, turtle neck, and undershirt, leaving him bare chested.

Don Bainbridge assisted Illya in dressing Napoleon with the dry shirts. Howard Starr’s aggressive driving made the task difficult, but not impossible.

“It is going to be a tight fit, Napoleon. Suck in!” Illya mused.

Solo glared at Kuryakin for a brief moment before trying to chuckle, finally getting seeing the humor in the comment. The shirts felt good... snug, but good. Comfortable. Still holding the heat from his partner’s body.

The Russian held up his coat for Napoleon to slip into, quickly dismissing the idea since it was several sizes too small and unable to stretch like the T-shirt and turtleneck. He eyed Bainbridge’s ski jacket and deduced that his would be a better fit.

“Take it off!” Illya ordered, nodded towards Don’s jacket. Like his comrades in the front of the van, he did not appreciate the Russian’s dictatorial attitude, but acquiesced for Napoleon’s sake.

There were no gloves in Bainbridge’s pockets, nor had Illya worn a pair. He stood and leaned over the front seat to see whether these agents had any. One telltale glove revealed itself from Martin’s pocket. Illya literally snatched it and demanded he be given the other.

Annoyed, Howard Starr gunned the accelerator and swerved, expertly sending the Russian back into his seat.

Albert Randolph watched all this from his seat in the rear, somewhat amused with the proceedings. Illya Kuryakin turned his attention to him and opened his mouth to make another demand. Randolph literally wiped the smirk off his lips, sensing that Illya was in a foul mood. He held up his hands to quiet the Russian and silently took off his wool cap and placed it on Napoleon’s head.

Illya Kuryakin had just finished zipping up his own jacket when the Volkswagen Bus maneuvered into one of UNCLE’s underground entrances.

The side door to the Volkswagen Bus was open before the vehicle had the chance to stop. Kuryakin’s feet met the concrete as he began pulling his partner from the van. Napoleon’s reflexes were slow, his strength sapped.

Illya opened his mouth to bark more orders, but he stopped himself when he saw his fellow agents picking up the slack.

Dr. Jonas Fine was waiting at the drop-off point as requested. Nurse Walker assisted him. A wheelchair stood nearby.

Illya Kuryakin quickly briefed the doctor on his partner’s condition while Nurse Walker brought the waiting wheelchair to Napoleon. While he talked, Illya observed Napoleon refusing the chair, insisting that he could make to Medical on his own volition. He overheard the nurse tell his partner that was not a wise choice. Nurse Walker fussed over him a bit more, but Solo still refused and began walking into headquarters unassisted.

“Excuse me,” Dr. Fine said as he rushed passed Illya. He hurried to Napoleon and took hold of his biceps for support, then placing his other arm around the agent before helping him through the sliding metal doors.

Illya turned to walk away. A strong hand grabbed his arm. The Russian’s fists clenched as he turned to face whoever had taken hold of him.

Martin Kirk was glaring at him.

“What is your problem?” Kuryakin asked.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Kirk seethed. “Your condescending behavior in the van was uncalled for.”

The Russian glared back at him with cold, steel-blue eyes. “My instructions were to find Solo and bring he back to headquarters, preferably alive. I would consider the mission a success.”

“Yeah, it was a success,” Kirk continued, “but please remember that we are a team. You don’t have to be so damned abrasive.”

Illya pulled his arm free and squared his shoulders. He refused to dignify Martin’s comments with a response. He had done his job and done it well and felt it unnecessary to answer to defend his actions to anyone other than Alexander Waverly.

Without a word, Kuryakin fetched the jar of vile water from the van and walked into headquarters. Once inside, he turned right and continued down the hallway. Martin Kirk and the rest of Solo’s rescuers entered the building and turned left towards Medical.

A shade over four hours had passed when Illya Kuryakin surfaced from one of the Section Eight labs. He checked his watch - almost 5 am. As he walked down the brightly lit steel hallways, he removed his black-rimmed reading glasses and tucked them in the breast pocket of his lab coat.

The door to Medical swished open as he neared.

He walked through a small, utilitarian waiting area where several agents sat, obviously waiting to either see Dr. Fine or whoever was on duty at the moment, or to check in on colleagues who were under his care.

Ignoring the protocol of asking to see the doctor, Kuryakin walked through the doors which led to their offices.

“Aah, you are still here,” Illya said as he entered Dr. Fine’s office.

“And good morning to you, too, Mr. Kuryakin,” the doctor muttered. He was obviously exhausted and long overdue for his replacement to arrive.

Illya ignored the sarcasm. “I have the results of the fluid from the Thrush tank.”

Dr. Jonas Fine looked up at the Russian, silently scrutinizing him. He was surprised that Napoleon Solo’s own partner did not hang around and hound him for details about the patient’s condition like most partners did. The other agents on the mission were steamed about Kuryakin’s distance as well. It was they who stood by to make sure Solo was alive and well and safely tucked into bed before heading home to sleep.

The doctor’s concerns were answered when Kuryakin came in with lab results. Illya Kuryakin was tending to Solo in his own way.

“So what have you found?” Jonas Fine queried.

Illya sat down across from Dr. Fine’s desk and opened the manilla folder, flipped through a few pages, then turned it around for the doctor to read.

“Basically, he had been subjected to a slew of potentially dangerous elements. Some were organic, others metallic, a few quite toxic. The tank contained elements of raw sewage and microscopic living organisms. There were also moderate levels of mercury and iron, plus small amounts of insecticides. In the mix were traces of diesel fuel, 10-30 motor oil, just to name a few.”

Dr. Fine chuckled. “Sounds like the New York Harbor.”

“Correct. The complete breakdown of contaminants is listed in the file.”

“Well, you have been very thorough, Mr. Kuryakin,” the doctor said, rubbing his weary eyes. “And this will be very helpful in treating him. At least now we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Thank you,” Illya said, nodding curtly. He paused a moment. “How is Napoleon doing?”

Dr. Fine thought he would never ask.

“Let’s just say he’s not in the best of health at the moment. He had inhaled a good amount of this garbage,” Dr Fine started, pointing to the manilla folder, “and swallowed a lot as well. His lungs and upper gastrointestinal tract are raw. He’s nauseous as hell. He’s having trouble breathing. We have him on very high doses of antibiotics to combat his fever and whatever infections are running through his bloodstream.” Dr. Fine paused, wanting to add: _And to top it off, he’s been wondering where the hell you’ve been._ But he chose not to.

“May I see him?” Kuryakin asked quietly.

“Of course. He’s in Room 2. Because of the medications, he’s out like a light. I don’t recommend waking him.”

“Hmmm, perhaps I should just leave.”

“Please, feel free to check in on him, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya nodded and stood up.

“Thank you for doing this,” Dr. Fine said, waving the manilla folder. “You’ve taken out a lot of the guesswork for us.”

The Russian smiled slightly. “You’re welcome.”

Before leaving the Medical suite, Illya Kuryakin visited Napoleon in Room 2. He stood by the door at first and just watched his partner. Napoleon lay so still, with tubes and cords snaking their way out from under the blanket which covered him.

Napoleon’s breathing was slow and labored. An oxygen mask covered his face, and through the mask Illya heard the wheezing of injured lungs. Fluids from bags suspended high above the bed flowed into the agent’s veins, fighting his infections, hydrating him. The steady bleeps of a heart monitor assured him that the heart was still beating. The usual tanned face was ashen, pale.

Illya moved to the foot of the bed and picked up Napoleon’s chart to read the doctor’s notes. Fortunately, other than the cuts on his lip and the abrasions to his feet and knees, there were no other signs of having been beaten.

After replacing the chart, he stood by the side of the bed for a moment. He put his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder and quietly wished him a speedy recovery before turning around and leaving Medical.

  
  
Three Days Later  
  
“Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin,” Alexander Waverly greeted as the Russian entered his office for the morning briefing.  
  
The Old Man sat back in his leather chair, his hands clasped in front of him. Kuryakin found that unusual. His boss generally did not waste precious time ‘relaxing’. Usually, Waverly had his nose in files or his attention turned to a monitor or screen when his agents entered.  
  
Illya nodded and returned the greeting.  
  
“So, how is your partner doing?” Waverly asked.  
  
Kuryakin stopped in his tracks, unsure what to answer.  
  
“I checked the status of his condition last night, Sir. He seems to be recovering fairly well.”  
  
“Have you seen him? Oh... and please, Mr. Kuryakin. Take a seat.”  
  
“When I saw him last night,” Illya replied as he sat. “he was sleeping soundly.”  
  
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But have you actually spoken to him?”  
  
“No, Sir. Each time I visited he was asleep. His medications sedated him.”  
  
“Hmmm.”  
  
Illya Kuryakin could not understand why his boss was pursuing this line of questioning.  
  
“Is there a problem, Mr. Waverly?”  
  
“No, not exactly a problem, young man. Just a concern.”  
  
“I do not understand what your concerns would be. My team and I rescued him from Thrush and brought him back to headquarters safely. I personally stayed with him until he was under Dr. Fine’s care.”  
  
“Yes, you did.”  
  
Kuryakin’s eyebrows furrowed as he searched his brain to detect an oversight. “Did I fail to meet other obligations?” he finally asked.  
  
Alexander Waverly took a deep breath. “Not exactly, Mr. Kuryakin. You did your job with great speed, skill, and efficiency. You even had the presence of mind to bring back samples of the water he inhaled and swallowed.”  
  
“Then what seems to be the problem, Sir?”  
  
“A little thing called empathy.”  
  
“Empathy?”  
  
“Yes. A quality you appear to be lacking at the moment.”  
  
Kuryakin’s face reddened slightly. The conversation he was having with his boss was making him extremely uncomfortable. He prided himself on being a perfectionist, one who covers every angle with planning and forethought. Never had ‘empathy’ entered the equation. His face telegraphed his confusion - quite unusual for him.  
  
The Old Man leaned forward towards his Russian agent. “The reason I am telling you this is because no one wants to approach you. They feel you are too aloof - too unsociable to hear it from them.”  
  
“Have you had complaints?” Illya asked, squaring his shoulders.  
  
“Not exactly complaints. More like gripes. No one has approached me officially, just informal rumblings about the distance you put between yourself and others.”  
  
“What exactly does that have to do with Napoleon?”  
  
“He’s a bit concerned that he’s seen neither hide nor hair of you in the past few days. He even asked me if you were sent on another mission while he was recuperating." Waverly picked up his pipe and tamped down the remaining tobacco in its bowl. He needed a few seconds to choose his words.

"I know he’d been asleep each time you visited," the Old Man continued. "but other employees here at headquarters have made the time to drop in and chat with him while his eyes were open. Although the use of empathy is not in UNCLE's code of ethics, it's one of those unwritten clauses we tend to observe.”  
  
Illya took a deep breath, trying to absorb what his boss was telling him. He never considered Napoleon Solo the ‘vulnerable’ type whose feeling would be hurt by his absence. Besides, his assignment was to rescue his partner and return him to headquarters, not baby-sit. He finally nodded and accepted his lack of good judgment.  
  
“Is that all?” Kuryakin asked as he stood to leave.  
  
“Yes. I don’t want to keep you from whatever you’re working on,” Waverly said. “Oh - before you go, would you please bring Mr. Solo a change of clothes? He’s being discharged this morning and needs something to wear.”  
  
“He has a small wardrobe stashed in our office closet,” Illya mused. “I will take care of it.”  
  


  
  
Several pairs of eyes focused on Kuryakin as the doors swished opened to Napoleon’s hospital room. It was the silence that followed which the Russian felt most unnerving. His partner was seated in the recliner clothed in two skimpy hospital gowns, worn in opposing directions to offer him some measure of modesty.  
  
Don Bainbridge and Albert Randolph were waiting with Napoleon until he was officially discharged. The jovial banter which met Illya’s ears is what ceased upon his arrival.  
  
“Good morning, Napoleon,” Illya said, forcing a smile, as he entered the room.  
  
“’Morning to you too, Illya,” he returned.  
  
The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife.  
  
“I...uh... heard you were to be discharged today.”  
  
“You heard correctly.”  
  
“I assumed you would need a change of clothes,” the Russian said, offering the garments and shoes to his partner.  
  
“I will. Thank you,” Solo responded without true appreciation of Illya’s gesture.  
  
“Are you being discharged soon?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Will you be in need of my assistance getting home?”  
  
“No, I am **_NOT_** in need of your assistance!”  
  
Illya looked around at his fellow Section 2 agents and partner as he inhaled a deep breath. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “Very well, then,” he said as he turned on his heels and left the room.

******

**Late November**  
  
The embers glowing in the fireplace did little to warm the rustic hunting cabin tucked away slightly west off Interstate 87 in the Catskill Mountains. The bright interior lighting revealed the simplicity of the structure. It consisted of one large room which served as living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedroom. Utilitarian shelving along the unpainted rough hewn walls stored a variety of canned foods. A few books were strewn about. A rack of hunting rifles were housed behind the doors of a locked glass-fronted cabinet.  
  
A light dusting of fresh snow added to the picturesque quality of Kaaterskill Falls. Evening had fallen fast, plunging the Upstate New York area into complete, velvety darkness with a full moon and an array of stars above. The mountain air was frosty with a promise of cold, wintery weather ahead.  
  
Unfortunately, neither Napoleon Solo nor Illya Kuryakin could appreciate the bucolic beauty of their environs.  
  
The UNCLE agents were not guests of the hunting cabin by choice. A trio of Thrushmen thwarted their return to Headquarters several miles north of Kaaterskill Falls. Just before dusk, a projectile broke through the back window of their Saab sedan, releasing the knockout gas which rendered them powerless. Their car slipped into a shallow drainage ditch along the side of the mountain road as they lost consciousness.  
  
They now sat bound hand and foot in chairs diagonally positioned across the main room. Their suits crumpled and dirty, but intact nevertheless. Three other men were in the room with them. Two sat in more comfortable chairs, and the third, a wiry, nervous man, paced the floor.  
  
Both agents took a quick assessment of the room when consciousness returned. Their coats, weapons, and communicators were thrown into a corner across the far side of the room, away from the cabin’s only door. Three windows graced the structure, each with shades drawn down. Furnishings were sparse and utilitarian. No obvious instruments of torture stood about. The cabin lacked a telephone.  
  
Illya Kuryakin sat with his usual passive non-expression as he observed his captors. The Thrush goon to his left seemed as bored as he, occasionally looking around the room to see if anything could capture his interest for more than a few moments. The second member of the trio was trying to perfect his sneer. When his eyes met with the Russian, his lip curled into what was supposed to be a threatening gesture. Illya merely rolled his eyes and looked away, agitating Thrush Muscle Number Two even more.  
  
“So tell me, Andy... if I may call you that,” Napoleon Solo mused, “why exactly have you brought us here? Surely we could have found this lovely place without an escort.”  
  
Andrew Murphey was not in the mood for small talk.  
  
“My name is Andrew. And you know damned well why we brought you here!”  
  
“Not really, Andy. My friend and I had a few days away from the office and decided to spend it traveling through the Catskills.” Solo looked at Murphey, smiling innocently. “You know how stuffy it gets being stuck with our noses in accounting registers all day. Why, just last week I asked my friend here if he would like to play hooky for a few days and...”  
  
“It’s Andrew!” Murphey shouted, waving his arms. “Do I have to beat it into you?”  
  
“Sorry... uh...Andrew,” Solo repeated dramatically. “Anyway, as I was saying, the next thing we know, you abducted us and took us here without the courtesy of a simple explanation.”  
  
Illya let Napoleon do the talking. After all, his partner was known for his glib tongue and ability to bluff his way in seemingly desperate situations. He saw where the conversation was heading. Napoleon planned to toy with Murphey for a bit, hoping to stall for time. Before their communicators were taken away, Illya had called headquarters for backup, and since they were approximately an hour and a half from the city, the calvary should be arriving soon.  
  
“Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Solo. I know for a fact that you have Dr. Rottingdam’s latest formula, and Thrush Central wants it back.”  
  
“Thrush, Andy? Our local avian friends want information? Are they like carrier pigeons?” Napoleon turned towards his partner. “Hey Mac, do you think its birds or that...uh... what is it? Hoof and mouth disease?”  
  
Illya Kuryakin broke his silence and smiled. “Aah, yes. Thrush. Also known as candidiasis. It is a yeast infection that occurs most commonly in the mouth. It is caused by the fungus Candida albicans, affectionately known as ‘Candida’.”  
  
The wiry Thrush agent glared at Kuryakin’s arrogance, then turned his attention back to Solo.  
  
When Napoleon had his captor’s full attention, he continued. “So, there must be a fungus among us, my friends.”  
  
The bored Thrush muscle as well as the sneering one chuckled. Murphey turned around to them and demanded they silence themselves.  
  
“You see, Andy, no need to be so serious. Let’s talk this over like the decent gentlemen we are. Besides, you made these ropes a tad too tight. Be a sweetie and loosen them a bit, would you? Huh?”  
  
Illya Kuryakin kept his gaze on Andrew Murphey, never taking his eyes off the man. Murphey seemed to feel it boring through his skull.  
  
“And what the hell is your problem?” Murphey shrieked as he spun around to look at Illya.  
  
“Problem?” Kuryakin asked, his head tilted slightly, his eyes still boring holes through the Thrushman.  
  
Andrew Murphey drew a deep breath to settle himself then turned his attentions to Napoleon Solo once again.  
  
“So tell me, Andy. See any good movies lately?” Napoleon chirped. “There are some mighty good ones out there. Why just last week, I saw _La Dolce Vita._ Great flick!”  
  
“That’s enough, Mr. Solo!”  
  
“Or, if westerns are more to your liking, there’s always _The Magnificent Seven._ Lots of action in that one!”  
  
“My men are itching to beat the living daylights out of you, Mr. Solo,” Murphey sneered, his face within inches of Napoleon’s. “I suggest you stop this monotonous...”  
  
Andrew Murphey stopped mid-sentence and stood ramrod straight again, turning around to the Russian. The Thrushman’s face was red, the veins on his neck and forehead beginning to protrude. Illya’s gaze remained intense, a slight smirk on his lips this time. Murphey settled himself as quickly as possible when he observed his Thrush underlings watching to see what he would do next.  
  
Trying to regain his composure, Murphey paced a few moments before returning to Napoleon.  
  
Fortunately for Solo, the Thrushmen removed none of his clothing or accessories. While Murphey paced, Napoleon maneuvered his wrist to extricate the small blade nestled beneath the back of the wristwatch.  
  
Kuryakin, of course, knew what his partner was up to and tried his hardest to divert Andrew’s attention. The Russian knew exactly where Napoleon had hidden the information Thrush so desperately wanted back. Hopefully, if the Thrushmen were to strip Napoleon, their back-up would have arrived before Murphey got down to Solo’s socks.  
  
By the time Andrew Murphey stopped pacing, he had settled down considerably.  
  
“Are you OK?” Napoleon asked with mock sincerity. “You appear a tad stressed. Perhaps if you try yoga... I heard that’s wonderful for stress reduction. Or perhaps sex. Great release for all that pent-up energy. But you know, if none of that tickles your fancy, you really should consider a movie. Although I haven’t seen it yet, I hear that _Psycho_ is one heck of a thriller. Anthony Perkins is supposedly divine as Master Bates. You really should find a way to relax.”  
  
Murphey was getting rattled again. He rushed Napoleon and grabbed a fistful of hair, almost knocking the chair over in the process. He pulled a knife from its sheath beneath his jacket and held it to Solo’s throat. He bared his teeth and grinned. “I find solace in maiming and killing, Mr. Solo.”  
  
The grip tightened, the knife’s blade slowly pressed against Napoleon’s jugular vein, threatening to pierce the tender skin. Then, Andrew Murphey suddenly stopped.  
  
“Who the hell **is** this annoying little man?” Murphey shrieked as he turned and stalked once more towards Illya Kuryakin.  
  
The Russian seemed fearless, completely unfazed by the maniac quickly approaching. The icy gaze never once wavered, unnerving Andrew Murphey even more.  
  
Sneering Thrush Guard finally stood up to help his superior.  
  
“Let me take care of this, Mr. Murphey,” Sneer said, cracking his knuckles in preparation.  
  
“No, no... I want the pleasure of dealing with this... irritating person!” the Thrush agent spat.  
  
Kuryakin continued his glare.  
  
“You think you’re so intimidating?”  
  
Silence.  
  
Murphey circled Illya’s chair and slowly reached for a rectangular box from a nearby shelf. He opened it and produced a small hypodermic needle and vial. After filling the syringe halfway with the pale amber serum from the vial, he waved it under Kuryakin’s nose. “I honestly doubt your insolence will continue after this!”  
  
Sneer positioned himself behind Kuryakin’s chair. He withdrew a penknife from his jacket pocket and slit through the agent’s suit jacket sleeve and the white shirt beneath it.  
  
Smiling to himself, Andrew Murphey further tore the sleeves to bare the soft flesh inside the elbow. He pressed several of the visible veins and selected the one he planned to invade. Without a word, he slid the tip of the needle into his chosen vein and slowly depressed the plunger. When he finished, he withdrew the needle and stood back, arms crossed, watching the Russian’s reaction.  
  
Initially there was nothing. No pain, no dizziness, no disorientation. Illya kept his gaze on Murphey intent, diverting their attention away from his partner. In his peripheral vision Kuryakin observed Napoleon working at the wrist bindings with the blade hidden in his watch.  
  
Then the inevitable happened. As the drug took effect, an invisible vise began crushing Illya Kuryakin’s skull. The sensation of sledgehammers trying to work their way out from the inside of his cranium began to pulsate and pound. Napoleon watched as his partner’s eyes clamped shut and his head began wildly thrashing about, as if trying to rid itself of the pain the way a bronco bull disposes itself of its unwanted rider.  
  
The third Thrushman of the trio, who had been bored with the majority of the proceedings in the cabin, finally stood up. He unplugged a floor lamp from the corner of the cabin and brought it close to Illya before plugging it in again. He removed the lampshade to give the Russian the full effect of its brilliance.  
  
Illya Kuryakin felt as through his brain was about explode. Sneer held Kuryakin’s head still while Boredom forced his eyelids open to stare into the light bulb. Illya gritted his teeth to avoid the pressure welling up inside.  
  
“You don’t seem so damned intimidating now, do you, Mr. Kuryakin?” Andrew Murphey shouted directly into the Russian’s face. “Tell me what you have done with Rottingdam’s formula!”  
  
The pain was so intense, the light so blinding, that Illya could not concentrate on putting words together to formulate a coherent sentence. There was no way in hell he could have divulged the information even if he had wanted to. Murphey continued his tirade while the drug wormed its way deeper into Kuryakin’s bloodstream. Moments later, he jerked his head free of the Thrushmen’s grips and let loose a wail which made Napoleon shiver inside. Kuryakin’s small frame began to shake and convulse.  
  
Solo was making minimal headway with the ropes, cursing the thickness of the twisted hemp holding him prisoner. He just needed a few more minutes...  
  
The sound of a communicator cut through the commotion in the room. The tone and pitch was unfamiliar, so Napoleon assumed it was coming from a Thrush device.  
  
Sneer stepped aside and pulled a small metallic box from his breast pocket. He plugged one ear with a finger while holding the device to his other ear. With out a reply, he snapped the box shut and rushed back to his cohorts and Illya.  
  
He spoke a few quick words to Andrew Murphey, who in turn nodded towards Kuryakin. The three Thrushmen quickly cut through Illya’s ropes and carried the convulsing agent out of the cabin and into a waiting pick-up truck.  
  
Murphey turned around to Napoleon seconds before leaving. “We’ll be back for you!” he snarled as he slammed the door behind him.  
  
Napoleon Solo began cutting through the ropes furiously once the Thrushmen left. He heard the engine start and roughly idle before departing from the property with wheels squealing.  
  
In less than a minute, Napoleon was free. He bolted out of the chair and gathered their weapons and communicators. Seconds later he heard what sounded like two vehicles returning to the cabin.  
  
Crouching behind a chair, he waited with his gun drawn to defend himself against any enemy who might enter.  
  
The door crashed open, and his drawn gun was met with four other drawn guns, all UNCLE Specials. Martin Kirk, Albert Randolph, Don Bainbridge, and Howard Starr paused for a split second to assess the situation, then immediately holstered their weapons as Napoleon stood up. Solo grabbed his and Illya’s overcoats, the vial Murphey had used on his partner, and ran out of the door with his comrades.  
  
“They left about three minutes ago in what sounded like a truck,” Napoleon explained as they piled into the UNCLE vehicles. “Illya was drugged. I assume they’re heading back towards the city.”  
  
Nothing else needed to be said. Solo joined Starr and Bainbridge in the first car, Kirk and Randolph piled into the second. In the darkness, they followed the dirt road to out to Kellerman’s Pass and planned to travel South towards New York City. Napoleon hoped his hunch was correct.  
  
In the darkness, it was easy to spot headlights from other vehicle about a mile ahead. The headlights disappeared as they wound around the mountainside, only to reappear seconds later as the gap began the vehicles began to diminish.  
  
The mountain roads were slick under the thin layer of freshly fallen snow, but both UNCLE drivers maneuvered their vehicles like Nascar pros. Napoleon sat in the passenger seat and maintained contact with the other car as Don Bainbridge whipped around the curves. Howard Starr sat behind them, gun drawn, in readiness of a Thrush pursuit.  
  
Kellerman’s Pass began descending the mountain in a south west direction. Both the Thrush and UNCLE agents had to negotiate several precarious hairpin turns which forced them to slow down or make it to the bottom of the mountain in a rather unpleasant manner.  
  
“Jackson’s Curve is up ahead, ‘bout a quarter mile,” Bainbridge informed his crew as they inched closer to the Thrush vehicles. “That ought to slow them down a bit.”  
  
Rear brake lights of the Thrush vehicle revealed that they were indeed slowing down. Bainbridge was right. What surprised them was the vehicle coming to nearly a full stop as they rounded the curve. In the light of the full moon, Napoleon and the other agents saw the pick-up truck braking. They sped toward the truck as quickly as prudence would allow. As they neared, they saw two shadowy figures stand up in the bed of the truck and throw something over the guardrail bordering the side of the mountain. Once the bundle was out of their hands, they squatted down and the truck sped away.  
  
“Damn!” Solo shouted. “We’re stopping here!” he snapped into his communicator. “You two follow the truck!”  
  
Dan Bainbridge brought their car to the side of the guardrail with a screeching halt. Before the car fully stopped, Napoleon flung open his door and darted to the railing. The other agents immediately followed.  
  
In the dim light of the full moon, the three agents saw a small parcel of earth jutting out perhaps fifteen feet below the guardrail. Sinewy tree roots offered it the tentative security which saved Illya Kuryakin’s life.  
  
The three UNCLE agents silently sprang into action as if of one mind. Napoleon took the car keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. Bainbridge helped fish around the trunk for rope and hopefully a flashlight. Starr contacted UNCLE Headquarters and made an emergency call for help.  
  
Within moments, the agents had secured one end of the rope to the car’s chrome rear bumper. Napoleon tucked the flashlight into his belt and knotted a loop at the bottom for his foot. With the other agents’ assistance, he lowered himself over the guardrail to the earthy shelf below.  
  
As he neared Illya, he swung himself on the rope slightly hoping to grasp one of the larger roots protruding from the side of the mountain. The earth cut in under the guardrail slightly, offering him a spot to land. After two tries, Napoleon maneuvered himself on the ledge.  
  
The earth below his partner was unstable. Chunks of dirt began shaking loose from his additional weight, threatening to fall apart completely. Napoleon grabbed the collar of Illya’s jacket and pulled him back on to the more stable land hugging the mountain. As Kuryakin’s body moved from his perch, the small shelf fell into the night below.  
  
“Got him!” Napoleon called up to his agents above.  
  
Solo pulled the flashlight from his belt and shined it on his partner’s face. He was not sure if Illya was even alive. Immediately, he felt for a pulse and allowed himself the luxury of a deep breath when he felt one, albeit weak and thready. The Russian was unconscious, his pupils completely non-responsive to the light.  
  
“How is he?” Starr called.  
  
“Barely alive.”  
  
“Should we risk bringing him up?”  
  
Far in the distance, Napoleon heard the wail of sirens. The sounds echoing off the mountains did not help gauge how far away they actually were.  
  
“Yes!” Napoleon answered as he began wrapping the rope around Illya’s chest. There was adequate rope to dangle his original foothold below Illya. “I hope you had your Wheaties for breakfast. Bring him up!”  
  
Bainbridge got behind the wheel of the car and slowly inched forward. Starr stood by the guardrail, navigating. Napoleon eased Illya closer to the edge of the deteriorating shelf as the rope began pulling him upward. Once Kuryakin was safely off the ledge, Napoleon slipped his foot through the loop at the bottom of the rope and held on to his partner as they were slowly lifted.  
  
The sirens got louder and eventually the side of the mountain lit up with their flashing red lights. As Illya and Napoleon neared the guardrail, two additional people peered over at them with arms extended to pull them to safety.  
  
The paramedics were well prepared for mountain rescues. They arrived in a large van equipped for almost any situation that would arise. On board they carried life-saving apparatus that would hopefully keep their patients alive during transport. Napoleon immediately filled them in on his partner’s condition and cautioned against administering any medication since he had been drugged.  
  
Before joining Illya in the back of the ambulance, Napoleon handed Howard Starr the information Thrush so desperately wanted and sent them back to headquarters. Solo climbed aboard the van and headed with his partner to Kingston and the nearest hospital.  
  


  
The two paramedics who helped haul the agents from the side of the mountain wheeled Illya Kuryakin in to the emergency room of Hudson Valley Hospital. The gurney was pushed through several sets of double doors, but Napoleon was stopped after the second set. An austere nurse in her fifties blocked his path.  
  
“I’m sorry Mr...?”  
  
“Solo.”  
  
“...Solo, but you can’t go in there.”  
  
Napoleon stemmed his initial urge to physically push the starched white-clad sentry out of his path and immediately calmed himself. A charming smile crossed his lips. “Please, ma’am. This is an unusual situation.”  
  
“And just what would that situation be?”  
  
“He’s my brother-in-law. My wife would kill me if I didn’t keep an eye on him.”  
  
The nurse looked at Napoleon’s left hand.  
  
“Does your wife know you left your wedding ring home?”  
  
“My dear, you’re on to me. I really need to go in.”  
  
“Well, after we complete all the paperwork, I’ll consider it.”  
  


  
  
Dr. Patrick Caselli and three nurses ushered the two paramedics into a separate examination room towards the back of the facility. The safety belts crossing over his body were removed and the blankets underneath opened. Before transferring him off the gurney, Dr. Caselli gave him a rudimentary check over.  
  
Illya first felt the pain in his head as he began to awaken. His training disciplined him to remain still while he assessed his situation. The voices he heard were unclear and unfamiliar. Hands pressed and probed him. The bright lights surrounding him radiated through his closed eyelids. At least his hands and feet were free.  
  
The last thing he remembered was being thrown into the back of a pick-up truck, presumably on his way to Thrush headquarters. It was only logical that he was now their prisoner.  
  
One voice seemed slightly louder than the rest.  
  
“On my count...”  
  
Something beneath Kuryakin shifted. He was unsure what.  
  
“One... two... three...”  
  
As the hospital staffers and paramedics grabbed the sheet beneath the agent to slide him off the gurney, Illya lashed out. His arms and legs began fighting off anyone who was within reach. Metal objects clanged against the floor and walls as they were strewn about. Chaos followed.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, his limbs were finally restrained within the grips of four people. Illya forced open his eyelids slightly to see the two uniformed paramedics plus two burly orderlies holding him down. A woman in white was attempted to unbutton his shirt while another moved about gathering things. A young, white-coated man began filling a syringe.  
  
His surroundings were as unfamiliar as the people. As he pulled against the hands securing him, the pounding in his head worsened. Through slitted eyelids, Illya watched the young man in the lab coat approach him with the syringe. Despite the throbbing in his head, Illya made a furious final attempt to break free from the people holding him down. Finally, his head flew back and he began yelling something unidentifiable.  
  
Napoleon Solo heard the commotion and pushed his way past the hindering nurse. He ran to the room Illya had been taken. As he entered, Dr. Caselli was about to inject his partner with the contents of the syringe.  
  
“Stop!” Solo demanded, moving quickly to where his partner lay.  
  
Dr. Caselli did as Napoleon requested.  
  
“Illya,” Napoleon said softly. He placed one had on the Russian’s forehead and the other on his shoulder.  
  
It was the touch that calmed him slightly. Kuryakin could not initially hear Napoleon’s voice over his own yelling.  
  
“Shh. Shh. It’s all right, Illya,” Solo continued, keeping his voice soft and calm. “It’s Napoleon. Take it easy. Relax. You’re safe here.”  
  
The words finally began making it through and Illya began to settle himself.  
  
Napoleon looked up at one of the nurses and requested the overhead lights be shut off. Once the room had dimmed, Illya opened his eyes a little. Through the red haze of pain he saw his partner’s face and immediately calmed down.  
  
“You can let him go now,” Solo instructed the paramedics and orderlies who secured Illya. They looked at each other then back to Napoleon. “I need a few minutes with him. I’ll be fine.”  
  
“I would like to give him this sedative first,” Dr. Caselli said.  
  
Napoleon shook his head handed his business card to the doctor. “Please call that number and ask for Dr. Fine. He’ll fill you in on what to do.”  
  
One by one, the four people holding Kuryakin tentatively released their grips. He no longer appeared to be a threat, so they obeyed Solo’s request and left the room.  
  
Illya threw both arms over his face to cover his eyes. He grimaced and gritted his teeth, squelching the urge to scream from the pain. Napoleon noticed his partner’s body was shaking.  
  
“Illya, can you understand me?” Napoleon started quietly.  
  
The Russian quietly grunted and nodded his head slowly.  
  
“You’re at the Hudson Valley Hospital in Kingston. UNCLE is sending a helicopter to take us back to Headquarters. Dr. Fine is filling in Dr. Caselli on how to treat you in the interim.”  
  
Illya opened his mouth to speak, but found it impossible to verbalize even part of his concerns.  
  
“Don’t try to talk, my friend. The chopper should be here in less than half an hour.”  
  
Another small nod from Kuryakin.  
  
“I have the vial that Murphey used and UNCLE is aware of its contents. The medical lab is cooking up the antidote as we speak. You’re going to be fine.”  
  
Illya grunted this time.  
  
“Eventually,” Solo mused, patting his partner’s shoulder.  
  
“The...f..f..formula?” Kuryakin finally managed to say.  
  
“It’s on its way to UNCLE as we speak.”  
  
“M...Murphey?”  
  
“Albert Randolph and Martin Kirk caught up with them shortly after they threw you over the side of the mountain.”  
  
Kuryakin moved one arm slightly so his right eye could squint at Napoleon. Th..threw... me... wh..where?”  
  
Napoleon rubbed his partner’s arm and smiled. “I’ll explain later, Illya.”  
  
Suffering through his pain and maintaining a modicum of dignity became increasingly more difficult. He hated feeling incapacitated, not in control of his own welfare. He shuddered slightly at the raw fear he felt when he opened his eyes to see Dr. Caselli preparing the sedative and the four hospital staffers holding him down, the momentary panic believing he was at Thrush Central, weakened and in tremendous pain. Seeing his partner standing over him gave him an initial sense of security, followed by the embarrassment of being in need of his help.  
  
“I’m Patrick Caselli,” the doctor announced as he returned to the examination room. “Mr. Kuryakin, I just spoke with Dr. Fine. All he suggests is starting an IV line to give you fluids. He’ll be here with the helicopter in approximately twenty-five minutes.”  
  
“All right,” Napoleon said, nodding. “Could you also draw a vial of his blood? It will expedite his treatment at headquarters.”  
  
“Sure.” Dr. Caselli turned his attention to his uncooperative patient. “Would you unbutton your shirt, Mr. Kuryakin?”  
  
Illya weakly nodded.  
  


  
  
The UNCLE Medical Transit Team walked briskly through the emergency room of Hudson Valley Hospital. Dr. Jonas Fine and Nurse Walker rushed ahead of the Section Three who had flown in with them.  
  
Dr. Caselli was seated behind his desk when they arrived. After their brief introductions, Dr. Fine asked about Kuryakin as they headed towards his room.  
  
“Except for a killer of a headache, there seems to be nothing much wrong with Mr. Kuryakin,” Caselli began. “No broken bones, no concussion, no internal injuries. Just a few scratches and bruises.”  
  
“Have you taken X-rays?” Dr. Fine asked.  
  
“Your orders were to have him ready for transport when you arrived. He has no soreness or swelling and Lord knows he’s able to move his arms and legs with acute precision! ”  
  
Jonas Fine quietly chuckled.  
  
As they neared Illya’s door, Dr. Caselli shook Jonas’ hand and passed the Russian’s medical chart over to him, obviously glad to be relieved of this particular patient.  
  
Jonas Fine and his crew opened the door to Illya Kuryakin’s room and herded in. The overhead lights were still off, with only the softer glow of a single bulb near the sink illuminating the room. Napoleon Solo was standing by his bed, facing the door to ward off any unwelcomed visitors. His right hand automatically slid to his shoulder holster at the sound of the door opening. Jonas Fine ignored him, Nurse Walker shook her head and rolled her eyes.  
  
“So, I hear you’ve been giving the good folks here at Hudson Valley Memorial a difficult time, Agent Kuryakin,” Dr. Fine mused.  
  
Illya was cocooned under two white blankets, blocking out light and keeping in warmth. His only reaction to the UNCLE team’s presence was a grunt. Dr. Fine placed a hand on Kuryakin’s shoulder.  
  
“Illya, I need to turn on the lights and see how you’re doing before we move you.”  
  
“Must you?” Illya rasped, not relishing the thought of aggravating his headache further.  
  
“Yes. Just bear with me, OK? I’ll be quick.”  
  
Another grunt.  
  
“Dr. Caselli was pretty thorough,” Napoleon offered, hoping to avoid stress on his partner.  
  
“I’m sure he was, Napoleon, but I want to make my own assessment,” Jonas said with a weak smile. “You know how I get.”  
  
Nurse Walker nodded for one of the UNCLE security agents on the lights before she began coaxing the uncooperative Russian out of his wrappings. Illya held on to blankets with a death grip, unwilling to relinquish them without a struggle. They were the last safeguards between him and his harshly lit surroundings.  
  
“Oh, come on, Mr. Kuryakin,” she chided. “I honestly thought Section Two Agents were tougher than this!”  
  
“His head feels like it’s in a vise, Nurse Walker,” Solo explained. “How about we shut off those killer lights first.”  
  
Jonas Fine sighed and nodded, ordering the lights shut. Illya slowly released his grip and allowed UNCLE’s medical team access to his person.  
  
The doctor quickly poked and prodded and moved limbs about, satisfied that indeed nothing was broken and all internal organs were intact.  
  
“You are one lucky man,” Dr. Fine said softly as he moved closer to Illya’s face. “From what Napoleon told me, you’re lucky to even be alive after they heaved you over the side of the mountain.”  
  
The doctor tried prying Kuryakin’s arms from across his eyes. He was finally successful, but Illya shut his eyes tightly and turned his head away from the light.  
  
“Mountain?” Kuryakin rasped quietly, still unsure what had happened to him.  
  
“I’ll explain later, Illya,” Napoleon assured him.  
  
Another grunt.  
  
“I need to take a quick look at your eyes.” Dr. Fine clicked on his penlight.  
  
Illya recognized the sound. He grimaced at the thought of light piercing his brain. But he understood the doctor’s reasoning behind it. Slowly, the Russian’s head turned towards the doctor as he opened his eyes into a squint.  
  
“This will be quick, I promise,” Jonas Fine said as he gently opened one of Illya’s eyelids at a time and shined the penlight into them.  
  
As expected, Kuryakin’s pupils did not contract at the light’s invasion. After a few seconds, Illya snapped his head away and clamped his eyelids shut. The movement made his head swim and his stomach rebel.  
  
Both arms covered his face, trying to block out the cacophony of amoebic color dancing in his brain. His head pounded with a fury worse than before. Almost immediately he broke out in a cold sweat and began shaking.  
  
“Illya,” Dr. Fine said quietly, “I’m giving you a generic antidote. This will start to buffer some of the symptoms you’re feeling.”  
  
The Russian started to protest. Agents preferred not to have their faculties compromised until they knew they were safe. Being in transit was not the same is being safely ensconced at Headquarters. Illya wanted to remain as alert as possible, just in case....  
  
Napoleon moved close to Illya’s ear and asked his partner to let the doctor do his job. Illya took a deep breath and nodded ever so slightly, realizing that being under Solo’s watch essentially equalled ‘safety’.  
  
“I can’t give you an exact antidote until I discern exactly what is in your bloodstream,” the doctor continued. He began rummaging through his medical bag to draw blood when Napoleon stopped him and waved the vial Dr. Caselli had drawn. Jonas Fine nodded then waved the vial of serum in front of him. “But this will help take the edge off your pain.”  
  
“A..a..any op..tions?” Kuryakin managed to croak.  
  
“Yes. You have options. We can take you back to the city and drop you off on your doorstep... leave you to your own devices. These migraine-like symptoms you’re feeling will last approximately three to four days, and its half-life a few days a while longer. Or, I can treat you and get you back on your feet in about a day or so.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“What will it be?” Dr. Fine finally asked.  
  
Illya Kuryakin loosened the IV-ladened arm from across his face and offered it for Dr. Fine’s serum.  
  
“Wise choice, Mr. Kuryakin,” Jonas Fine said as he injected the pale yellow substance into Illya’s IV line. “Otherwise it would be one hell of a helicopter ride for you in this condition.”  
  
Nurse Walker started packing up their materials while Napoleon gathered Illya’s meager belongings - muddy shoes and a badly torn suit jacket. One of the security agents rolled a gurney into his room from the hallway.  
  
“N-no!” Illya protested weakly as the sound of creaky wheels from the hallway entered his room.  
  
Dr. Fine and Nurse Walker ignored his objections and prepared the gurney to transport Kuryakin out to the helicopter. Napoleon moved in to assist.  
  
Illya pushed away the hands which tried helping him on to the gurney.  
  
“I’m sorry, Agent Kuryakin,” Dr. Fine sighed as he tried gaining a grip on Illya’s upper arm, “but according to UNCLE’s bylaws, Statute 116, subsection B, you need to be transported to the helicopter by gurney.”  
  
Kuryakin paused for a second and furrowed his brow, then looked at the doctor and snarled: “T...there is no Statute...116, subsection B!” before defiantly sliding off the mattress.  
  
The pounding in his head worsened as he stood and the room began spinning around him. Before taking his first step Kuryakin’s knees buckled beneath him but he never fell to the floor. The last thing he heard was Napoleon muttering “Stubborn Russian!” in his ear before passing out.  
  


  
  
Illya Kuryakin woke for the... what was it?... the second time? No, it was the third. Each time the light in the room was blessedly dimmed and the equipment used to monitor his well being set on “mute.”  
  
He was comfortable. And his head hurt less than before.  
  
To his best recollection, each time he woke one of UNCLE’s nurses had been with him. Beatrice Amanu in her bright African motif turban had welcomed him back to the land of the living the first time. Her soft, melodical voice and gentle mannerisms assured him he was safe and on the road to recovery. She checked his charts then her wristwatch and told him it was time for his next dose of the antidote. His head throbbed like before. Afraid to move one iota, he lay still and let her do whatever she needed. The Russian quietly grunted and fell asleep moments after the serum began flowing through his veins.  
  
The second time he was greeted by Nurse Walker. Her less-than-melodical voice and no-nonsense mannerisms also assured him he was doing quite well. She checked her charts and her wristwatch and nodded, informing the Russian that it was time for another dose of the antidote. His head still throbbed, but unless he was delusional, its severity appeared to have lessened. Illya offered no resistance and accepted the serum willingly. He fell back to sleep before she left the room.  
  
This time Illya Kuryakin felt almost human. The pain in his head had drastically lessened in its severity and he was able to move his head without feeling like the sledgehammers within would crash through the skull.  
  
The nausea was gone, replaced with pangs of true hunger. The agent’s eyes scanned the room and found the clock perched above the door. Fortunately, the hands were illuminated, informing him that it was 2:38. He was unsure whether it was midday or the middle of the night, but the lack of typical “Medical suite” sounds outside his door led him to believe it was nighttime.  
  
And if it was the middle of the night, he surely did not want to wait until breakfast to eat.  
  
Illya rolled on his left side and felt for the call button usually suspended from the side railing or clipped to his pillow. He smiled to himself when it found it and depressed the button. As he rolled on to his back, a quiet sound to his right caught his attention.  
  
He froze, listening intently.  
  
Quiet, even breaths of someone soundly sleeping met his ears. Illya turned his head to the right to see the blanketed form of someone dozing in a recliner next to his bed. He rolled on to his right side. In the ambient light glowing from under the door, he saw what looked like Napoleon Solo wrapped in a white hospital blanket, napping quite contentedly. His suit jacket was draped over the back of a less comfortable plastic chair a few feet from him.  
  
A wave of confusion suddenly overwhelmed him. Illya knew for a fact that he was in UNCLE, obviously safe and not in need of someone guarding him while he slept. Why in the world would Napoleon Solo....  
  
Before he could finish processing the scenario, the door to his hospital room slid open, spilling harsh, bright light into the room. Illya automatically turned away and shielded his eyes. As he turned his head, he saw his partner’s right arm slip further beneath the blanket towards what was probably his holster, but stopped as soon as he recognized the silhouette of Nurse Walker entering the room. Solo smiled sheepishly and blinked the sleep out of his eyes.  
  
“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked Illya Kuryakin as she strode over to him.  
  
“Hungry,” he mumbled, still a little dulled by the drugs induced by both Thrush and UNCLE.  
  
“Hmmm,” she mused smiling. “Good sign. Your first complaint wasn’t about your headache or nausea. Can you handle a little more light?”  
  
Illya nodded. Nurse Walker reached behind his pillow to pull the chain attached to the light above the bed. The Russian squinted in the brightness.  
  
Napoleon sat up and stretched, politely covering a yawn. The blanket dropped off his shoulders, revealing the white dress shirt he had not yet changed out of. The two top buttons were unfastened, and his tie hung loosely around his neck.  
  
“Are we taking good care of Agent Kuryakin?” Napoleon asked. He stood and moved closer to his partner’s bed.  
  
“Don’t **_we_** always?” she returned, trying to ignore the senior agent.  
  
“Well, Illya, I just want you to know that you are in the care of UNCLE’s finest,” Napoleon continued, smiling broadly as he placed his arm around Nurse Walker’s shoulders.  
  
She merely took a deep breath, rolled her eyes and shook her head while beginning to check Illya’s vital signs.  
  
“So, my dear, how much longer will Agent Kuryakin be gracing your fine wards?”  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin seems to be doing much better. If he continues to improve, Dr. Fine will probably release him later today.”  
  
“Am I invisible?” Illya groused. “Should you not be telling this to me?”  
  
“The sun rises and sets on the lovely ladies who tend the injured and sickly,” Solo resumed. “Where would we be without their capable hearts and hands?”  
  
Nurse Walker curled her lip and swung around, looking Napoleon Solo right in the eyes. A slight smile crossed her face. “Yes. I can now see why they’re so brown!”  
  
Napoleon raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, then grinned. “Touché.”  
  
She tapped the tip of his nose with her pen and winked. “We are pretty good, though, aren’t we?”  
  
Kuryakin cleared his throat to gain her attention.  
  
“I’m still hungry!” he reiterated.  
  
Nurse Walker asked him a litany of questions and called for Dr. Fine to see him before allowing the Russian anything to eat or drink. Jonas Fine was pleased with his progress and felt that Illya could handle something light.  
  
“How light?” Kuryakin grumbled.  
  
“Well,” Dr. Fine started. “Considering you haven’t been able to eat or drink for the past 24 hours, I would recommend juice and graham crackers.”  
  
“That’s it?” Illya balked.  
  
“Let’s start with that, shall we, Mr. Kuryakin? See how that goes down... and if you can keep it down, we’ll proceed from there.”  
  
Dr. Fine and Nurse Walker left the room a few minutes later, but Nurse Walker quickly returned with a half pint carton of apple juice and several graham crackers on a plate.  
  
“Bon appetit!” she chirped as the meager fare was left on Illya’s tray table.  
  
Illya eyed it with disdain then picked up one of the graham crackers. Napoleon caught his attention and motioned him to stop.  
  
The senior agent reached down to the floor and picked up a knapsack. He placed it on the foot of Illya’s bed and began rummaging through it. He stopped suddenly, looked up and grinned at his partner. From the sack he withdrew a wide-mouth Thermos bottle and set it on the tray table next to the measly graham crackers.  
  
With dramatic flair, he unscrewed the cup on the top of the Thermos and set it down. Then he loosened the inner cap and sniffed the air as the cap came off. His gaze then riveted on Illya and he smiled as he poured homemade chicken rice soup into the cup.  
  
Illya’s eyes widened and a broad smile covered his face as the fragrant soup was served to him. Napoleon unearthed a spoon from his knapsack and handed it to his partner.  
  
Kuryakin took a taste. His eyes closed as the delectable mixture rolled around his tongue and down his throat. After a few moments of silent eating, Illya found his voice.  
  
“This is wonderful. I did not think the commissary cooks were capable of making soup like this.”  
  
“Oh, this isn’t from the commissary, my friend,” Napoleon explained. “This is from the Saul’s Deli. One of his special soups of the day. I thought this would be easier for you to digest that his matzoh balls.”  
  
“At this point, Napoleon, even tennis balls would seem appealing.”  
  
Napoleon chuckled. “By the way, you handled Andrew Murphey brilliantly in the cabin. How did you know what would rattle his cage?”  
  
“I had read his psychological profile a while back. The man suffers from paranoia.” Illya grinned. “He was quite easy to aggravate.”  
  
“And you did it with such panache.”  
  
The Russian ate a few more spoonfuls of the soup. His brow furrowed, as if trying to figure something out.  
  
“Is something wrong?” Napoleon asked.  
  
“I am a bit confused. It was something Nurse Walker said. She looked at you and said that she understood why your eyes were so brown. Surely someone with her medical background understands the role of genetics in determining personal traits such as eye color and...”  
  
Solo laughed out loud. “I was laying the flattery on a little too thick. What she implied is that I’m ‘full of shit’... and that’s why my eyes were so brown.”  
  
The look on Illya’s face indicated that it took a few seconds for the concept to register. Then his eyebrows raised a little and he nodded, smiling slightly. “And indeed they are.”  
  
Illya finished the entire contents of the Thermos. He and Napoleon talked a short while longer before fatigue set in.  
  
“Well, I guess if you’re going to be sprung from this joint in a few hours, we’d better get our beauty sleep,” Napoleon mused as he settled back in the recliner. He pulled the blankets around him and turned slightly to find a comfortable position.  
  
Kuryakin reached for the chain to switch off the light. He lay in the darkness, watching his partner in the ambient light glowing from beneath the door. He still felt a bit confused as to why Napoleon was there. There was no real need which dictated his presence. But Illya appreciated the company; it did cheer him up. And the soup was wonderful.  
  
Then it hit him. Empathy. This was what Alexander Waverly had referred to; that little bit of compassion he had neglected to show Napoleon when he was a guest of Medical several weeks prior.

Illya had never expected to be on the receiving end of TLC. It was not something generally bestowed upon him. He racked his brain trying to conjure images of the few rare times someone had gone that extra mile to do something kind to him. In his fatigue, none came to mind.

The Russian prided himself on never really 'needing' anybody or anything. Such attachments had always been a liability. He had learned early in life that he could get by on his wits, skills, and intelligence, and there was little else he needed to survive. Frivolous emotions like empathy were unnecessary.

But he now deduced that it was indeed a pleasant phenomenon.

Hmmm - he'd have to give this further thought once he was more alert, perhaps even discuss his shortcomings in this particular matter with Napoleon.

As sleep was about to take him, the door to his room opened once more and he watched as Nurse Walker quietly entered. She was making her final rounds before going home.  
  
“That doesn’t smell like graham crackers!” Nurse Walker whispered in his ear. She picked up the remaining debris on his tray and quietly bid him a ‘Good Night’ before leaving.

FINIS


End file.
